


lazarus, come forth

by Xyletic



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: Gen, Pre-Mass Effect 2
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-16
Updated: 2015-09-16
Packaged: 2018-04-21 02:12:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4811000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xyletic/pseuds/Xyletic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Joker has a request.</p>
            </blockquote>





	lazarus, come forth

“I want to see him.”

Miranda sighs. She’s been expecting this.

“Mr Moreau, you have to understand that we only began cosmetic surgery a few months ago. Our focus so far has been on repairing the internal damage.”

“I want to see him.” Moreau - not Joker, she refuses to call him by that asinine nickname - lowers his head and regards her stubbornly from under the brim of his hat. “I didn’t sign up for this because I wanted to fly your shitty freighters.”

No, you didn’t.

Survivor’s guilt is a useful tool. Combined with the treatment he received from the Alliance after the destruction of the Normandy, it drove Moreau straight to Cerberus after they made their offer. Miranda half-suspects he would have accepted even without the added lure of the Lazarus Project; Cerberus doesn’t waste talent or ground its operatives over petty politics, and a surprising number of its members are disillusioned ex-military.

Moreau has been growing steadily more vocal over the last few months, and his dissatisfaction is spreading. Even Dr Chakwas, brought to the station specifically to tend to his needs and keep him company, is beginning to ask pointed questions about the progress of the project.

 

Perhaps if Moreau sees that there is a reason his requests have been denied, he’ll become less vehement. Miranda calls up the surgical schedule on her omni-tool. The next skin graft procedure is due to begin in four hours; that’s more than enough time for Moreau to take his look.

“Fine.” she says abruptly, standing up. “Follow me.”

 

His hat is practically snatched from his head before he even reaches the decontamination chamber.

“Hey-!”

“You’ll get it back later.” The bald man who took it is holding it gingerly by the brim, as though it might bite. “Don’t you ever wash this thing?”  
“Bad luck.” Joker mutters, biting back the absurd protest that rises to his lips - Shepard won’t recognise me without it - as he puts on the provided surgical mask and gown before stepping into the chamber.

The decontamination cycle takes an eternity, more than three minutes by Joker’s omni-tool clock. By the time the beam flicks off and a pleasant VI voice announces _‘Decontamination complete’_ , there’s sweat gathering in his palms and his heart is thudding in his ears. He remembers Miranda’s warning - we only began cosmetic surgery a few months ago - and braces himself as the doors slide open.

He doesn’t know exactly what he’s expecting to see. A rotting horror straight out of a vid, maybe, or a husk (this is Cerberus, after all, producers of those all-time classics Insane Rachni and Enslaved Plant-Zombies.)

Somehow, the motionless form lying under a white sheet is worse than either of those things could ever be.

 

Joker takes a few halting steps forward, watching the rise and fall of Shepard’s chest under the sheet. As he gets closer, he realises that the red glow he’d taken for part of the room’s lighting is emanating from the scars on Shepard’s face, a network of cruel gashes carved into his skin beneath which machinery is faintly visible.

_This is your fault_ , he reminds himself fiercely, resisting the urge to look away. Scars or no scars, implants or no implants, this is still the man who let go of the bulkhead to seal the door of Joker’s escape pod. The very least Joker can do is be here right now.

“Hey, boss.” he says softly. “Been a while, huh?”


End file.
